Puddles
by miettelaenvie
Summary: Thinking has never been so hard to do before.


This is not a love story.

Well, it is, of sorts. Love has so many different meanings. Take the Greek language for example. _Agápe_, meaning an unconditional love, where _Éros_ means a sensual, passionate love. Neither of those apply. This is more like _Philia_, an affectionate love felt in friendship, though Sherlock doesn't have friends. That had never bothered him too much before; he was growing used to it the way you grow used to having a pet or a damaged arm. Friends were people, people were victims, even people that weren't friends become victims at some point at another so why bother?

No friends meant no unnecessary caring which meant things were clearer, mistakes were easier to find, facts easier to sift through. It meant the words lined up clearer and the colors stayed sharper. It is always so apparent how flawed everyone else is when they will have nothing to do with you. But even so, historians have found it hard to separate _Philia _from _Agápe_, similarities arising to the point of confusion. Sherlock should have known this situation would lead to no good, but he was more concerned with why the Greek language came into his head upon looking at the most recent variable in the grand experiment that was his life—that is, John Watson.

_Must delete that later, _he thought. _No use for Greek, no use for love in any form._

John didn't notice his stare, moving around the living space to sit in his chair, the paper in his hand. "'Greek Millionaire Heiress Found'?" he read aloud, glancing at Sherlock. _Greek, of course Greek._ Sherlock steepled his fingers, resting his chin on their point. "Simple, almost vulgarly so. Ran away, found a lover, went someplace brighter, newer. Las Vegas." John nodded, then stopped himself. "Were you just quoting lyrics?"

Sherlock cocked his head, coming away from his train of thought for a moment, his face going up in a sneer before John could shake his head and say, ''Never mind, of course not." Music was tolerable, sometimes even favorable. Lyrics, however, were not. Lyrics were someone else's thought, and Sherlock didn't need anyone else's thoughts in _his_ head, clogging_ his_ filters to the world. He turned his head back to rest on his fingers, tapping them along his lip, thinking, watching John turn back to the paper, the doctor's head shaking as if to say,_ Fantastic_.

Sherlock hates John for the way he marvels at everything Sherlock does, "Brilliant," and "That's amazing!" slipping out as if he has no control over his vocal chords, as if his mind isn't keeping up with his functions at all. John is smarter than that, Sherlock knows it, has seen him demonstrate it. He hates how those words make him pause, make him stop, make him think about useless things, undoing all the work he has so carefully done, so painstakingly grown accustomed to.

Now instead of being acknowledged as _the freak_, of that being all there was to Sherlock Holmes, John was opening eyes with his remarks and it was moving Sherlock into a light he wasn't prepared for. Not the recognition of his skills of deduction, he could deal with that situation, he craves that attention, wants someone to recognize he is beyond ordinary. It's only the truth; it's only how the world works. Payment for service—in this case, recognition for genius applied in what most would consider a helpful manner. Of course, had Sherlock found pleasure in robbing banks or the art of assassination, it might make his genius a bit harder to appreciate, but as it was his obsession was only slightly illegal, and only if he couldn't obtain what he needed legally.

But when John said things like "Incredible!" it was in admiration and Sherlock could not think of another person who had admired him so bluntly. Perhaps Mycroft, but that was just an acknowledgement of his skills and what his brother deemed 'worrying' about Sherlock. John was one of the only people who have _seen_ Sherlock, who recognized his ability, who didn't think he was an outcast so much as an annoying genius. He tolerated Sherlock beyond what anyone else had and Sherlock didn't know what to do with that, his eyes running over the doctor for the thirty-eighth time that day. He keeps count because he is well aware of how experiments can turn into obsessions alarmingly fast and he won't have the time or patience for an obsession for another three weeks, and even then the madness of an obsession is questionable for his filters. He needs the colors, the words, the muddled clarity even more now, not for the victims and not for anyone on the Yard, but for himself as always and more recently, for John.

It's childish, he knows, but he wants to impress John. He's always wanted to get people to notice him—not so much impressing them as pulling the rug from underneath them and beating them over the head with his wits, letting them see how incredibly great he was compared to them. Cunning, witty, clever, smart. He didn't need brute strength when he could outthink any opponent's move seconds before they decided to make it.

But this, this was different, disconcertingly so. He wants to be something useful, meaningful to John Watson; more specifically, he wants to be John's cane. He knows the purpose of the cane, understands the craftsmanship used to make such things and how this one in particular was most likely hammered out in some factory. That is unimportant, irrelevant, but it crosses his mind nonetheless before he deletes it. But the way John places his weight on that cane, the way his fingers curl around it, the way his hip bumps it when he walks—that's what Sherlock wants to be.

John glanced over at Sherlock, catching him staring, and tilted his head in the way that meant he's wary. "You're not planning something, are you?" Sherlock saw the 'not good' written between the syllables and tone and turned away, his eyes feeling like they've been set on fire as he stood up, his phone ringing. "Lestrade. He wants me—us to come." he corrected, and John set the paper aside and grabbed his cane in a way that made Sherlock's eyes burn again and he turned away as John moved towards the door. "What is it this time?"

"Double murder suicide." _It could be a bloody unicorn if it got me out of here. Unicorns don't exist. Delete that._

"Double murder… suicide?" John repeated, his voice lilting into a question. Sherlock gave him a withering look as he slid his coat on and tied his scarf. _Don't act stupid John, I know you're not stupid. _"Right then," John said, grabbed his jacket and Sherlock grimaced, sweeping out of the room and down the stairs. What good were years of learning how to be on your own along and how other people acted if someone were just going to come along and defy expectations? Like walking through a puddle that clearly reflects a scene, shattering the image into ripples that went everywhere. _Delete that, puddles are not important. Stop thinking about John if you'll have to delete everything afterwards._

_Or if he makes you think of puddles._


End file.
